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by LadySilver
Summary: A series of unrelated Teen Wolf crossovers. So far: Tomorrow People '92, Highlander, Forever Knight, and Buffy.
1. Reborn: The Tomorrow People NS

**A/N: For reasons I can't explain, I feel compelled to venture into crossover territory. The following is the first in what is, at least for now, planned to be a series of _Teen Wolf_ crossovers. This is not being posted as an official crossover because it won't fit neatly into one other media category. None of the characters or properties referenced within belong to me. As always, comments and critique are welcomed.**

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Or: _Teen Wolf _Crossovers I'm Not Going to Write

by LadySilver

#1: _The Tomorrow People_

Allison had stood over Scott with her bow at the ready, knowing that there was only one way for this to end. He had lied to her. He had betrayed her. He was a monster, a werewolf. And, though she hadn't known it until just then, she had been trained her entire life for dealing with monsters. There was only one way: Death. Yet—

-no matter how hot the anger burned inside her, she couldn't bring herself to raise the bow, couldn't envision nocking the arrow. Aunt Kate chided her. But not even the desire to please the woman she had admired more than her own mother couldn't get her arm to obey the signals she thought her brain was sending it.

Aunt Kate had been slaughtered in the fight that followed, the Alpha slashing open her throat while Allison watched, helpless. The next few hours were a blur. She knew she was in shock, felt like a fish-eye lens stood between her and the rest of the world. Not until nearly dawn, as she lay wide-awake in bed, did the horror of the night hit her. Between one breath and the next, an invisible hand seized her heart and adrenaline surged through her body. She sat up, sucked in a deep gulp of air. _Oh, God. Aunt Kate._ Bright light swept over her vision, a strange energy crackled around the edges of her body.

Her next breath brought a searing lungful of water. She sputtered, started hacking. Fought to swim up, legs kicking with powerful strokes, before she understood that she was completely submerged. Her head broke the surface of the water. Around racking coughs, she glimpsed a beach not more than a few dozen feet away. It was night, though not completely dark. The moon seemed brighter than she'd ever seen, the stars many times more numerous.

A person was standing on the beach, a darker shadow against the night. She swam toward it, found her footing soon enough. Still trying to clear her lungs, she struggled to the shore. The person waded in, tucked a strong arm around her back and helped her above the wave line, patted her on the back until she could breathe freely. She collapsed into the sand; he hunkered himself into a crouch an arm's length away, as if he were afraid of spooking her, but reluctant to allow any real distance.

"I can't believe it," he said, shaking his head. She felt relief and amazement; knew they weren't hers. "After all this time. It's so good to meet you, Allison."

She started. How did Adam know her name? Sucked her lower lip behind her teeth. And how did she know his? She shoved a handful of salt-water soaked hair out of her face. It was still too dark to make out many details, but she could tell that the man before her was older, maybe her dad's age, white with short brown hair. He had on cargo shorts, a t-shirt, and sandals—strange apparel for the middle of the night. He spoke with an accent she immediately pegged as Australian, though beyond that she didn't know. "I-I'm sorry," she said, wanting to duck her head, trying to meet his eyes. "I, um…" What was she supposed to say next? _Where am I? Who are you? What am I doing here? How did I get here?_ _Has he been waiting for me? How would he know to wait? _The questions piled up on each other in her brain, backlogged on her tongue.

He smiled, kind and paternal. "I'll explain everything." She got the feeling that he'd done this before, more than once. But he didn't move. He just kept staring at her like he had been waiting for her all his life. Allison was suddenly very conscious of how the shorts and t-shirt she wore to bed were drenched and clinging to her body; she tried to pluck them away discretely. "Sorry," he said, a slight shake of his head breaking the tension. "You're the first one to come here—" He glanced out over the ocean, "—in over fifteen years." She heard more than he said, wasn't sure if she was supposed to: _Is nature going to give us another chance? Is humanity ready now?_

Finally, he stood up, offered a hand to help her up if she wanted one. She eyed it, decided she didn't need it. She pushed herself to her feet, started trying to brush the sand off her skin and clothes. It stuck to her everywhere. Adam waited, his arms now clasped behind his back. While cleaning she had time to notice that the air was hot and humid, much more so than February in California should be. And the stars … the stars were all wrong. Swallowing back panicked bile, she searched the sky for anything familiar. Found it in the moon. It was definitely her moon, a darkened crescent on its side as it waned. But, the stars-

"You're on an island in the South Pacific," Adam responded, though she was sure she hadn't asked a question. Not out loud, anyway. "You teleported."

Allison blinked at him, felt the strength in her legs slip away. She sat with a thump back on the beach. She knew the word, but couldn't force it to make sense. This had to be a dream. A nightmare. The whole night had to be one incredible, detailed, and very long nightmare. There was no other way to explain how werewolves and werewolf hunters, murder and violent animal attacks, and a surprise near-drowning and teleporting could all fit into one story. These things didn't go together—couldn't go together—in the real world.

"There's Orion," Adam said, pointing up at the sky, at the stars. "It looks upside down to you, but see the belt." Allison followed his finger as he traced a line in the air. She had to adjust her frame of reference, but then the old familiar constellation snapped into place. The panic subsided. "I know it feels like everything is upside down right now," he continued, still gazing upward. "With time, it'll start to make sense again. No matter what, though, you need to know that you're not in this alone…" In her head, she heard a medley of voices add the rest: "Tomorrow People are never alone."

He offered his hand again. This time, she accepted it.


	2. Life Lessons: Highlander: the Series

#2: _Highlander: the Series_

"I have to do what?" Jackson exclaims, eyebrows shooting into his hairline. "No, scratch that. They're going to do what to me?" He plants his hands on the arms of the chair from which he thought he was going to have an easy get-to-know-you with his dad's new research associate and pushes down. He isn't quite on his feet, but it will only take a small effort to finish the job.

His parents often had people over to the house for dinner or drinks. Sometimes these were people they wanted to impress. More often they were people whom they felt should be impressed. Jackson's role in the first scenario was to be dutiful and well-mannered. His role in the second was to trick the guests into letting their guard down so that he could learn, and relate back to his folks, their less polite thoughts. He was used to having to entertain people his parents invited over, so getting sent to his dad's study with the new associate was just another night in the Whittemore household.

And then this guy came over, a Dr. Adams or Dr. Benjamin—Jackson never bothered to retain their names—and Jackson almost pleaded off because, from the moment the man stepped in the door, Jackson had felt a strange pressure in the back of his head, like a migraine trying to sneak up on him. Except, he'd never been prone to migraines. So he belted back a shot of vodka, silently daring his mother to try to stop him, and stepped out to meet the man with an easy grin, a firm handshake, and a scripted humble retort for the inevitable boast his father would make about his son's athletics.

When they are left alone in the study for "a few moments" while his father "checks on the dinner preparations," Jackson is all set. He is convinced that the man is as transparent as that bra Lydia bought that one time. After all, he can't have much more than a decade on the younger boy and he's a doctor, so that spells intelligence, dedication, and work ethic—but also nerd. This is clearly a guy who has spent most of his life with his substantial nose in a book, probably doesn't have any real experiences, hasn't lived much.

The study is designed to make people feel comfortable. All dark woods and leather, thick beige carpet and dim lighting, lots of antiques and classic touches. It's quiet and calm in here with an ambiance that makes people want to keep it that way. Jackson's planning to use that; it's one of his favorite techniques. He's settled back in one of the matching antique wing backs with a non-threatening bottle of root beer at his side—the visitor is in the other chair with a bottle of something expensive and micro-brewed next to his—and he's just reaching for it when the man says, "When did you die?" as if that's the most normal ice-breaking question in the world.

Jackson misjudges the reach and nearly knocks the bottle over onto the expensive carpet. "Excuse me?" he chokes. He knows the answer, does his best to school his expression before any more unease can show. Up until that second, he'd assumed that Derek's bite had merely affected him differently than Peter's bite had affected Scott. Why shouldn't it have? While it was true that the only change he'd noticed in himself was that his lacrosse injuries healed within seconds, he hadn't really known what timeline to expect. The first full moon is still a week away. For all he knows, the changes don't kick in until then. It's not like Derek has been forthcoming with information. And he's not about to _ask_ Scott anything.

The man leans back in his chair, tilted like he's resisting the urge to sling a leg over the arm and kick off his shoes, takes a swig of his beer. "You heard me," he replies. He eyes the label on the bottle, shakes his head. "Hand brewed doesn't mean what it used to," he adds. Under his breath, he says something else that sounds like, "Of course, neither does Cholera."

Jackson can't do more than gawp, his urge to tell the guy to f-off fighting with his role in the scenario.

After a long moment and another swig, the man says, "All right. Here's the deal." And in a handful of sentences that sound suspiciously like ones Jackson swears he overheard that day at lunch from the computer geeks, the man tells him about something called The Game. Only two things sink in: He's now immortal until and unless he gets decapitated, and hundreds of people around the world want to be the one to remove Jackson's pretty head from his neck, so he has to learn to decapitate them first.

Jackson's outburst is interrupted with his father's return and the announcement that dinner is being served. He swallows back everything else he wants to say. The visitor looks as laid-back as ever, not at all like he had just been explaining how people went around murdering each other for shits and giggles.

He eats his dinner mechanically, doesn't taste a bite of it. All he can think about is heads. His head. His head being sliced off with a very sharp sword. He hears a thump, jerks his eyes up from his plate, heart suddenly racing. For an instant, he's certain that the thump was the belated sound of his cranium hitting the table, and he's expecting a gush of blood to follow. Is this what decapitation feels like? Does decapitation feel like anything? Or are you dead before you know what happened? Then he sees the cook staring, chagrined, at the silver serving tray she'd let go of too soon. A splash of gravy mars the white tablecloth. He ticks his gaze over to the visitor and catches a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. What a dick.

Jackson decides then and there that he is never going to know the answer to those questions.

The meal turns into after dinner drinks, then dessert. Eventually his father deems his associate to be suitably impressed and stands up to see him to the door. Jackson comes with him, again playing the part of good son. They shake hands. The man's hands are warm and calloused, ones that are used for manual labor—or for wielding a sword. And the teen gets an inkling that he judged the young doctor wrong on all accounts. He feels a piece of paper pressed into his palm with the handshake, pockets it without comment.

Later, when he finally sheds his family, he unfolds the scrap. Shudders. It's a time and place, directions and a command.

As he tries in vain to fall asleep, he wonders if immortality is going to get him killed.


	3. Forever Knight

#3: _Forever Knight_

"…and so, _mes amis_, we once again find ourselves … here. Is it dark where you are? Is it cold? Do you _long_ for the warm embrace of another…"

The voice was smooth and the sultry, as if the speaker didn't know he was sharing his private thoughts with the world, as if he was naming the private thoughts of his listeners. Derek couldn't help but be captivated. He sat in his car, the voice caressing him. It was late night, the sky shrouded with clouds. A crispness in the air had made him seek the refuge of his car's heater, which blew warm, dry air on to his face, barely assuaging the chill the seeped in around the edges of the windows. To break the silence, Derek had turned on the radio. But the FM stations played only hard, driving beats, too much like a heart pounding in terror. So he'd descended to AM, turned the dial haplessly until catching a snippet of this voice. Then it became all he could, all he wanted, to hear. He'd had to tune carefully to find the best reception, moved his car around the clearing in front of the ruins of his house to improve it, but static still ghosted over the signal.

"There are times," the voice continued, "where those ties that connect us, bind, constrict, cut our circulation and make us struggle to be free." The speaker sighed, long and reflective. Derek could hear a faint clink, as if the speaker had set a glass on a table. "Yet, how we yearn for those bonds when they are gone."

Derek pushed his car's seat back as far as it would go, stretched his legs into the floorwell. Getting comfortable was out of the question; the best he could hope for was to fall asleep before his body cramped up. So hypnotic were the speaker's words that for whole, connected minutes the werewolf didn't smell the acrid, morient scent of ashes and pain and fear that suffused what remained of his house, his life. He was a creature meant to find solace and strength in the company of others, sitting alone in a car in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night. The wrongness of this ate at him, his loneliness making him act in ways he didn't recognize as himself. He could, did, resist in small ways. But, always the idea lingered that he was getting what he deserved.

"How much worse when loosed the bonds of centuries?" mused the voice, one which clearly bore a burden equal in weight to Derek's.

He leaned the seat back, as close to reclining as it would go, pillowed his arms behind his head. The words washed over him. For the first time since returning to Beacon Hills, he wished he still had his cell phone. He'd had to give it up when he left New York, when he came back to California in search of his sister. A mere six years before he'd lost everything when his family was burned to death; a mere two weeks ago he'd given up everything he'd since been able to rebuild. He squashed those thoughts before they could turn into self-pity. He didn't have the luxury of self-pity, not now. If he was going to survive, he needed to look toward a future that had to be better—if he could become strong enough to claim it. At this moment, though, he wanted nothing more than to call the radio station, talk to the speaker, share … what? What would he say? What would even make sense to someone outside his world?

It was such a small thing, petty, ridiculous, even, that he couldn't call a radio station, wouldn't know what to say if he did. But, of all the ample hurts he had to select from, this one dug the deepest. The leather upholstery creaked as he repositioned, trying in vain to ease discomfort that wasn't entirely physical.

"And we have to ask ourselves, is _here_ where _you_ want to be? Do you seek to strengthen your bonds? Do you desire connection?"

_Yes, _Derek thought, disregarding the first question. _Yes._ But how? How to build without risking further destruction? He couldn't take any more. He hadn't lost control of his wolf since he was a young teen, but—increasingly he was tempted to give in and let it take over. Its needs were so much simpler.

"Let me guide you, gentle listeners. Let me show you where to go. On nights like this one, fear not the cold or the dark."

He wouldn't give in. His family might have been ripped from him, but that just made it more imperative that he not sacrifice what they had taught him. He didn't know if he needed a guide, if a voice on the radio could even begin to take the role that his sister Laura had filled. But—as the play of cold and heat teased his skin, creating an odd comfort—he knew he would tuning in again tomorrow night.

"You can trust me. Because I … _am_ … the Nightcrawler."


	4. One Girl None the Better: Buffy

One Girl None the Better

Ms. Morell just won't leave her alone. Usually people are a lot quicker than this to get the message when Lydia doesn't have time for them, unless they're named Stiles, but he's, like, practically the exception that proves the rule, and yes she is using that phrase correctly. Lydia huffs out a sigh and examines her nail polish for chips, in lieu of anything more intellectual to do.

Even so, she does _not_ have time for this, she thinks as she clacks her way out of math class and to the guidance office where Ms. Morell is no doubt sitting with another easily manipulated psych test. How many times can she answer _butterfly_ before Morell gets the hint?

When she gets to Guidance, Lydia is sent right into the office, no waiting. The hope that this might be a short visit crumbles when she sees that Ms. Morell is not alone. There's an older man with peppered brown hair standing behind her, wearing the most heinous tweed coat she's ever seen.

"This is the one," Ms. Morell says. Ms. Morell, who is a half-time Guidance Counselor and half-time French teacher, proves her creepiness when she adds, "I have been watching her for some weeks." Morell's French-Canadian inflections grate on Lydia, as always, because the school _should_ be teaching her Parisian French, but honestly, it's not like she's ever had high expectations of her formal education.

The man pushes his glasses higher up his nose and peers at her through them. "I can't say I'm surprised," he speaks, and Lydia perks up at hearing the Oxford in his voice, the most class this school has ever had. And, OK, maybe she is a tiny bit smitten, not that she'll ever admit it. "Though, I had hoped for someone a bit more…" he trails off at a slight shake from Ms. Morell's head. "Well, looks have deceived before. Very well."

The man gestures for Lydia to sit down. She gets as far as the chair, then takes up a posture with one hand on her jutted hip. If she had gum, she'd smack it for good measure. She _still_ does not have time for this, no matter how good looking certain people are. The sooner everyone realizes it, the better.

Ms. Morell makes introductions and then Mr. Giles, as that's who the man is, asks one of the worst questions she's ever heard: "You must be wondering why you're here."

Lydia raises her eyebrows and scoffs. "Not really," she says. "Can I go now? You're making me miss math and there's a midterm tomorrow." She doesn't bother to mention that she already understands the material in today's lecture and she is absolutely certain that she'll ace the test, no matter what kind of trick questions the teacher tries to include.

"What Mr. Giles needs to tell you is more important that math," Ms. Morell says. Lydia's about to scoff again, but there's a hardening in the set of Morell's face that makes Lydia flinch back. Where Morell had been an unassuming teacher before, now she looked powerful. Dangerous.

Taking that as his cue, Mr. Giles starts to talk. Lydia's kind of entranced by his accent at first and isn't really paying attention to _what_ he says until the word _vampires_ falls from his mouth. She rewinds the monologue in her head and tries to make sense of what was said. On the one hand, it doesn't. Not one bit. Then she starts to plug in the goings on in Beacon Hills and parts of the speech start sounding less implausible, which is a real problem because she knows that there's no way none of any of it could be true. She'd read everything the library hand on astrology and alchemy and cryptozoology back in middle school and concluded quite easily that it was all bunk.

Mr. Giles is peering at her again, this time over the tops of his glasses, as if he is expecting a response. Lydia flips her long hair over her shoulder. "One girl in all the world, destined to blah, blah, blah," she snarks. "Happy?"

Mr. Giles takes off his glasses and cleans them with a handkerchief that had been folded into the pocket of his coat. When he puts them back on, his eyes are shining with emotion. "I believe we'll get along wonderfully," he says, turning to Ms. Morell.

"Yes, I think you've been well-prepared for this Slayer," Morell agrees. "Now, If you don't mind, I'd like to share a few words of wisdom with her." She crosses to the door and opens it, indicating for Mr. Giles to leave. "Alone, please."

Giles hesitates for a long second, then concedes the room with a nod. Ms. Morell closes the door behind him, the click loud in the anticipatory silence. Taking the seat behind her desk, she crosses her arms over the wooden surface. "The duties of a Vampire Slayer are not to be taken lightly," she begins.

Lydia finally allows herself to drop into the chair. A glance at the clock on the wall confirms that she's going to have to _make _time for this, since it appears that the fate of the world is in her hands, or something equally inane. That thought draws Lydia's attention to her fingernails, which she once again examines for chips.

She takes a moment to admire the pristine lacquer, sensing that she'll never again get to see her fingernails be so flawless, nor her hands so smooth. She'd always known she was destined for something special, but this? It's not enough that she's now tasked with ridding the world of the forces of darkness, oh no. There are unattractive callouses in her future, Lydia can just feel it. She makes a mental note to ask Ms. Morell about a good manicurist, figuring that anyone who has served as a Slayer as long as Morell has to know _all_ the tricks, and Lydia wouldn't deign to learn from anyone else.


End file.
